Page 32 of The Mirror of Beasts

“Listen to me closely, little Lark,” the Bonecutter began. “I do not worship Lord Death. I am a servant to no king or god. Despite what he’d have you believe, he does not control access to all death magic everywhere, only Annwn’s supply of it.”

“So he really is a god?” I asked, my voice tight.

“No, but something like it,” the Bonecutter said. “He’s one of the Firstborn, the earliest race created by the Goddess. Immortal, and bloody difficult to kill, but not entirely impervious to death.”

“I’ve never heard of the Firstborn before,” I said, feeling calmer as my mind finally focused.

“You have, though likely by a different name,” the Bonecutter said. Her voice, so melodic, was oddly suited to telling stories. “Some call them the Tuatha dé Danann, the Aes Sídhe, or, in this part of the isles, the Tylwyth Teg. I’ve even heard them called the Gentry by the especially superstitious.”

“Aren’t those all different kinds of fairies?” I asked.

“You can call them fairies, I suppose. They once ruled over all of the Fair Folk,” the Bonecutter said. “They were given a special piece of the Goddess’s magic to aid them. Yet they left our world to create their own—the Summerland—long before the tides of beliefs changed and hostility toward magic grew.”

“Right.” I knew of that Otherland, at least, and I already knew why Lord Death hadn’t joined them there. “Lord Death was forced to rule Annwn as punishment for something—do you know what that was?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” the Bonecutter said, though that seemed impossible to me. “But if you’re intent on understanding death magic, you must first understand that there is magic in all our souls. That is our spark of life. If nothing interferes with it, that spark will continue from one lifetime to the next, persisting. But the souls brought to Annwn are different—twisted, cruel, corrupted by darkness long before they arrive.”

“And bringing them to Annwn takes them out of a cycle of reincarnation in our world,” I finished.

“Yes, but they’re brought there to serve another purpose as well,” the Bonecutter continued. “When you call on death magic, you sap that power from the wicked dead—their souls. As long as those malevolent souls exist in a world, as they do in ours, anyone can call on death magic, provided they know the rituals involved.”

“And you know them,” I said.

“I do,” the Bonecutter said. “And the knowledge will die with me. While no magic is inherently evil, death magic has a corrupting effect with too much use.”

“So Lord Death wasn’t always like this?” I asked in disbelief.

“The Goddess saw fit to give him her power to manipulate shadows, as if recognizing the way they called to him,” the Bonecutter said. “But that inclination toward evil has only grown now that he commands the full might of Annwn’s power.”

A cold kiss of ice touched my skin as realization set in.

“That’s the real purpose of the Wild Hunt,” I said quietly. “He needs to collect the wicked dead to add to his power.”

Tales of the hunting party of ravenous spirits and other supernatural beings roaming the world in search of souls to spirit away existed across many cultures, with good reason.

“Yes, his Winter Host,” the Bonecutter said. “The whispers say its horn echoes again through the night. That the wrath of winter has returned to this world once more.”

I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, staggered. The night before, in Boston, we’d heard it, hadn’t we? That strange, unearthly bellow that had dug its claws into my awareness, that had sent the man claiming to be Nash running with a warning for us to do the same.

The night the Sorceress Stellamaris and four others had died by Lord Death’s hand.

“Have you heard it?” the Bonecutter asked quietly. “The herald of death? It has been centuries since he assembled the last ride, leaving countless wicked spirits to roam free.”

Likely owing to Lord Death’s imprisonment in Avalon during that time.

“Yes,” I said. “But the Wild Hunt isn’t collecting the dead. It’s hunting sorceresses.”

“Then what was prophesized has finally come to pass,” the Bonecutter said, stirring the small pot of molten silver with a glass spoon.

I nodded toward the pot in front of her. “In Avalon I saw that same silver inside a cauldron. What is it?”

She motioned me closer. “What you see is death magic distilled into physical form.”

When I looked up from it, I caught her studying me, her expression pensive.

“Why can I see it, but others can’t?” I asked.

“That question,” the Bonecutter said, “you’ll need to ask your guardian.”

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